


In Sickness and In Death

by sachantquiladesailes_98



Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: (hopefully), (i'm really not lol), Awkwardness, Canon-Typical Behavior, F/M, Feelings Realization, I'm Sorry, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic, like even more than last time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26322808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sachantquiladesailes_98/pseuds/sachantquiladesailes_98
Summary: If you liked my first two fics... then I would still tread carefully honestly haha. This is even more self-indulgent and ridiculous than the other ones. I mean, I love it... but I make no promises that you will. 😂Just three short chapters of Piffling Vale's resident oddity and charmer getting sick and taking care of one another. Because it's really sort of officially come home to me that it's likely gonna be a while yet until we get season 4 😕 Stupid COVID... So have some more ridiculous and self indulgent fics from me! Y'all deserve it.
Relationships: Eric Chapman/Antigone Funn
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22





	1. For Better, For Worse

Antigone had been both fascinated and terrified by the concept of strangulation for as long as she had been aware of it. Steadily increasing pressure applied by means of a ligature- or, even more captivatingly, the unyielding weight of familiar hands accompanied by an insane, malicious glint of pleasure in once friendly eyes- desperately gasping for the most fundamental part of life itself and being denied it, the renewed and ultimately fruitless struggle to escape, the dawning realization that the black spots dancing before one’s eyes are as the shadows of the grave, the burgeoning lethargy as the stillness of death, the lessening clarity of thought as the preparation for the ultimate extinguishment of conscious existence. 

She imagines that it’s similar to waking up with the certainty that you’re about to throw up.

The bitter pressure clawing up her throat overrules the thick weariness in her bones, and she stumbles into the bathroom just in time for last night’s dinner to make a reappearance. Within moments, she hears the expected thuds from Rudyard’s room, followed by what he must believe is a sneaky departure from the house. She spares a brief thought to consider the unlikeliness of Rudyard having left any sort of note for potential customers- the appearance of which, she will admit, is also quite unlikely- before another heave rattles her body and drives any further thoughts from her mind.

An unspecified amount of time passes with her alternately heaving over the toilet bowl and dozing fitfully against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. This form of Antigone’s own hell is broken at last by the unmistakable jingle of the door being opened and a terribly unwelcome holler piercing through her foggy mind, exacerbating her already pounding head.

“I  _ know _ I’m late, but… where is everyone? Hello? Rudyard? Antigone? Madeleine! Well, at least you’re here… do you know where anyone  _ else _ is?”

Antigone debated calling out to Georgie. On the one hand, the effort might kill her, but on the other, if Rudyard hadn’t left a note, then Georgie must feel confused and probably a little taken for granted. Having said that, why was it always her responsibility to deal with Rudyard’s messes? Although, it was admittedly more unfair that Georgie should bear the brunt of them, since she was neither related to Rudyard nor being well compensated by him. Still, she didn’t want Georgie fussing over her when she just wanted to die in peace. Yet-

She was saved from the decision, since Georgie, not exactly renowned for her patience and less adept at deciphering Madeleine’s various squeaks than Rudyard, swore loudly and banged out the door, muttering under her breath all the while- likely about ungrateful employers and how she really is gonna quit one of these days. Antigone decides she will claim to have been asleep when Georgie inevitably confronts them both and threatens an increased absence. 

Her stomach has settled down enough that she doesn’t think she’s going to vomit again, but in its absence, her exhaustion and headache are brought to the forefront, and she collapses against the side of the bathtub again, and awaits the embrace of Death.... 

She awakes suddenly and confusedly. She looks around wildly, trying to determine where she is and how she got there. These remembrances are interrupted by what must have awoken her: an even less welcome holler.

“Rudyard? Antigone? Georgie? … oh, hey Madeleine. Where is everyone? Between you and me, how on earth they run a business is beyond me… Well, I suppose I’ll come ba…”

Chapman’s voice trails off and Antigone sighs in relief, assuming this an indication of his departure. So she almost slid off the lip of the tub when a renewed and louder call made her jump. 

“Antigone!”

She groaned softly. Why wouldn’t he just give up and leave like Georgie?

“Antigone, I know you’re here. I can see your shoes by the door.”

“Well, look who’s Mr. Observant,” she mutters dryly, before summoning herself enough to yell down at him. “Go  _ away _ Chapman! We’re closed today!”

He’s quiet for a second, and when he resumes, his voice lacks the accusatory tone from before. “Are you alright? You sound ill.”

_ “You sound ill,”  _ she mocks internally. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m sick today. So… like I said, we are closed. Go away!”

“Well, where is Rudyard? Or Georgie?”

“Gone. Because We. Are. Closed!”

“So nobody is looking after you?”

Before Antigone could come up with a response to such a bizarre inquiry, to her horror, she hears his footsteps on the stairs. If there was ever a time for Death to take her, it was now… but of course, Death was notoriously treacherous, and she was still resentfully living and breathing and dying of embarrassment when Chapman appeared in the bathroom doorway, cocked his head at her, and chuckled in pity. “You look awful.”

In some universe, she rises imperiously, marches past him, and slams her bedroom door in his face- dignity intact. In this one, she simply groans and collapses more fully against the tub. 

He comes over and crouches beside her, resting the back of his blessedly cool hand against her fevered forehead. “I’m assuming you’ve taken something, or were you not able to keep it down?”

She grimaces and leans away from his touch, crave it though she does. “Taken what? What are you talking about?”

He smiles patiently in response to her acidic tone. “Medicine. I meant, have you taken any medicine?”

“Oh… well, no,” Antigone muttered, attempting to conceal her surprise at hearing that there was apparently medicine to be taken. Of course, this concealment was proven pointless by his response.

“Let’s see if you can keep something down. What do you have? Where do you keep it?”

She sighs loudly and wishes that Death, if it would not deign to release her from this interaction, might take  _ him  _ instead… but of course, Death doesn’t step in here either. God forbid it might ever show up when it’s wanted.

“We don’t have any….” she grumbles sullenly. 

“You don’t have any?” He repeated incredulously, followed immediately by a muttered, “Of course you don’t have any”, and then a brighter exclamation, “Well, let’s get you back into bed, and then I’ll run over and grab something from my place!”

“But,” she splutters as he reaches under her arms to help her to her feet, “you can’t!”

“I can’t?” He repeats good-naturedly **,** resting his hand against the small of her back and guiding her towards her room, which he apparently knows the location of. “Why can’t I?”

“Because you just can’t!” she hisses as she passively allows him to tuck her back into her bed, relishing each casual brush of his fingers against her (even as she hates herself for it). “What about your businesses?”

“Oh, I’m sure my businesses can survive for one day without me. I’ve expanded enough that I’m not absolutely necessary to the day-to-day operation. And come on, not even  _ you  _ can possibly want to be all alone while you’re not feeling well. Let me take care of you.”

Perhaps it was the (however unintended) brag about his successful business, perhaps it was the implication that she was different than most people in most things, perhaps it was the earnest and gentle way he had asked to take care of her, but Antigone could not think of a single thing to say and, after a moment of staring at her blank face waiting for an answer, Chapman shrugged, squeezed her shoulder and jogged out of her room, down the stairs, and presumably back to his place to get supplies with which he would take care of her.

She shuddered at the decidedly inappropriate images that the words conjured in her head and then groaned. She was far too unwell for any such line of thought, which is why the idea of Chapman coming back to “take care” of her in any sense was absolutely ludicrous! Perhaps she could crawl down to the front door and lock it so that he couldn’t get back in. Of course, that might actually kill her… which was just overkill. The irony of her achieving the final escape from Chapman because of her attempt to escape from him in this life was probably too delicious for Death to pass up. Besides, somehow she didn’t think a locked door would stop Eric Chapman. He would get in somehow….

She shivered again at the images muddling up her thoughts. Then, she physically shook them off. “No! Shut up!” She growled aloud at her traitorous brain. “If you’re going to be able to do this, you can’t behave like that! You are going to have to just mindlessly interact with him until you can pretend to go to sleep!”

“And what exactly does the pretense of sleep accomplish?”

She jumped and turned her head slowly towards her door. Chapman stood in the doorway, a bag of supplies in his left hand, her favorite of his cafe’s mugs in his right, and a distinctly amused look on his face. She had obviously been daydreaming about him longer than she realized.

She bit her lip hard and wondered how much he had heard. Little enough that she could still walk it back? Hopefully…

She thought carefully about her response. She could say that the pretense of sleep would hopefully get rid of him or perhaps that if she went to sleep, she could send him off first. She debated briefly, trying to think what would be the least offensive and the least embarrassing response.

And then, of course, what came out of her mouth was: “It would get you off.”

Chapman’s progress towards her stopped abruptly, and he stared at her in silence, his mouth slightly open and his eyes blinking rapidly.

Antigone watched him “buffer” for lack of a better word for a few seconds before realizing what she had said and the implications it had carried. “Oh God, no! I meant, I mean, that’s not what I meant, I didn’t, I just… you could… leave,” she finished weakly, wondering if so-called sickness medicine was the sort of medicine that one could overdose on. 

Chapman “buffered” for a few more seconds, and then visibly shook off the conversation, and resumed his progress towards her. “I can’t imagine what you had actually intended to say- AND,” he quickly held up his hand, “I really don’t want to know.” He sets down the glass on her bedside table, and the bag beside her bed, and claps loudly, presumably in an attempt to dispel the awkwardness of the room. “Let’s just forget about that, then. I brought you some tea, which you can use to take these.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a bottle of pills, tipping a few into his palm, and holding them out to her.

She furrows her brow, glaring suspiciously at the innocuous pills. “What does it taste like?”

Chapman raises his eyebrows as he tries to think of an answer. “I… I’m not really sure. It just tastes like pills. You’ll swallow them anyways, so you don’t really taste much. Just… they taste fine. Just take them.”

He picks up her hand, and turns it over, tipping the pills from his palm into hers. She shudders at his touch and, in an attempt to keep from embarrassing herself, pops the pills into her mouth, and swallows them.

Or at least, that’s how it goes in some other, infinitely better universe. In this one, the pills hit the back of her throat that is closed for some reason and come shooting back out, one sticking to Chapman’s sculpted forehead and the other getting caught in his luscious golden hair.

Chapman stares at her in silence for what feels like ages but is likely only a few seconds. Then, he coughs awkwardly and peels the pill off his forehead. “Let’s try that again, shall we?” He runs his fingers through his hair, likely in an attempt to find the other pill Antigone had spat at him. “It often helps to take pills with water, or tea for example, since the liquid sort of eases the swallowing process.”

She halts his questing fingers with her own, plucking the pill from his hair and holding out her hand for the other one which he is still holding.

“Oh,” Chapman says, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll just get you some new ones.”

“Why?” Antigone wrinkles her own nose. “There’s nothing the matter with these.”

“Well,” Chapman deftly snatches the one that is in her palm and sets the two discarded pills on her bedside table, “they’re wet now, which will make them taste awful. And they were actually on my person, so I can’t imagine that is very hygienic.” He tips out two new pills from the bottle and, after handing her the tea first this time, he drops them into her palm again.

She’s pretty sure that sheer determination more than anything else is what helps her to swallow the pills this time- she has had enough of making an idiot of herself in front of Chapman for one day. 

He beams at her after she takes the pills as if she has done something particularly impressive. It’s embarrassing and a little patronizing and, in another universe, she banishes him from her chamber for it. (In this one, she blushes and stammers something incoherent, before nearly fainting when he presses his hand to her forehead again.)

“How are you feeling now?” He asks.

“My head hurts,” she mutters.

“Well, ideally the medicine will help with that. Anything else?”

She sighs in annoyance. “Is this what being taken care of is? Being pressured and nagged and constantly forced to answer questions? I’m tired and I want to sleep.”

Chapman blinks at her again for a couple seconds and then nods briskly. “Very well. You sleep for a while, then. I will be here when you wake up.”

Antigone is ripped brutally from the doze she was falling into at those words. “Wait, what? WHY?!”

Chapman startles at her aggressive tone. “Because… you are my friend. And I don’t want you to be alone when you’re not feeling well.” He says slowly. “Didn’t we cover this?”

“Ughhhhh,” Antigone groans and collapses even more fully into her bed. “Why me?” she bemoans.

Chapman rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake,” he sighs, but there is no real heat behind it. “Let’s not pretend today that we don’t both value this friendship. Rudyard isn’t here, Georgie isn’t here, so- just for today- I think we can both drop the act.” Having said this, he stands up, picks up her Embalmer’s Almanac (newly expanded; three whole new sections on fluids), and wanders over to her desk chair, where he settles himself and begins perusing its pages. 

“I don’t want your  _ friendship, _ ” Antigone murmurs rebelliously, only to stiffen in alarm when he says with utter exasperation, “Then, what  _ do  _ you want from me?!”

It is an echo of a conversation they have already had and Antigone falls back on the strategy that had, even if it wasn’t deliberate, gotten her out of it last time. She pretends to be asleep.

She hears him snort incredulously, but he doesn’t say anything else, and as long as she can block from her mind that Eric bloody Chapman is sitting two feet away from her, then maybe she could actually manage to… get… some…

When Antigone rolls over next, Chapman is entering her room with another steaming cup. “I heard you stirring and I figured you might like some tea,” he says softly.

“Am I dreaming?” Antigone murmurs aloud.

“Do you usually dream about me doing-”

“Almost exclusively,” Antigone cuts him off mindlessly, reaching for the tea and taking a sip.

“... what?” Chapman sits down on the edge of her bed and cocks his head at her, as if he has never seen her properly before.

Too late Antigone realizes what she has said and, feeling as if she might throw up, she begins drinking the tea in earnest, mildly scalding her throat, and looking everywhere in the room except at bloody, bloody Chapman.

For his part, he doesn’t say anything for a while, allowing her to pursue her strategy of avoidance and gulping down burning tea. Eventually, he straightens and holds out his hand to her. “Are you feeling well enough to see if there is anything remotely interesting on the television?”

She takes his hand because her body is a traitor and, next thing she knows, she is sitting on her couch and Chapman is fiddling with the remote, trying to find something for them to watch. 

He pauses in his channel browsing for a second and turns towards her. “You can rest your head in my lap if you want?”

It is a question, but it seems calculated and too casual and like he is trying to say something else and, in another universe, Antigone cocks her head at him suspiciously and demands an explanation. In this one, however, her body is a traitor and she has laid her head down on his lap before she even realizes that the question was suspicious.

It’s hard to focus on that, though. It’s hard to focus on anything, because Chapman is running his fingers through her hair and she ought to stop him, given his concern for hygiene- has he forgotten she is sick? She can’t seem to stop him, though, because it feels so lovely. It feels warm and comforting and gentle and lovely and nothing has ever felt quite like this before. So she closes her eyes and sinks into the feeling and puts off the nerves and stress and suspicions for another day.

She is jolted back to reality by a familiar strangled scream. “CHAPMAN!”

Chapman shushes Rudyard angrily, but the moment is shattered. Antigone flings herself away from him as if he is on fire. “Rudyard, what are you doing here??”

“What am I doing here??” Rudyard repeats hysterically. “This is  _ my  _ house! What is  _ he  _ doing here?!”

“ _ He  _ is… taking care of me…” Antigone explains rather lamely.

“I can see that!” Rudyard snorts.

Antigone flushes crimson and Chapman rouses himself. “Now just a minute, Antigone was unwell and, seeing as you had abandoned her-”

“I am her brother! It is my right to abandon her!  _ You  _ are-”

“My friend,” Antigone cuts in hurriedly. “He is my friend and I am grateful for his assistance today. It was…,” she turns from Rudyard to meet Chapman’s eyes, “really very nice.”

“Really very…?!” Rudyard trails off incredulously and increasingly more hysterical. “Where is Georgie?” he mutters before turning on his heel and wandering away. “Georgie? I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we have been BETRAYED!” He hollers this last part, likely intending for Antigone to hear it, but Antigone isn’t paying much attention. She is finding it difficult to stop looking at Chapman.

Antigone is likely kidding herself, but she imagines that there is something new in his gaze and it makes her want to throw up again. But it’s sort of a nice feeling somehow? It’s like her chocolates or like getting trapped underground with one’s worst enemy or like berating one’s brother and one's friend for their offensive, slapdash solutions to grief. It’s nice and awful all at once. Antigone is beginning to think that maybe all the best things are.

“Well,” Chapman clears his throat and tears his eyes from hers. “I really ought to head out. Now that Rudyard is back and you’re feeling better- you are feeling better?”

“Oh! Yes… I am….” Quiet descends upon them again, broken only by Rudyard’s mutterings and clatterings somewhere within the house. This time around, they are both rather determinedly not looking at one another though.

Antigone is searching vainly for something to say when Chapman stands up suddenly. “Oh!” She startles and scrambles to her feet.

“Sorry!” He says loudly and abruptly. “It’s just that I was thinking I would go now.”

“Right! Yes. Yes, of course. I will walk you to the door, then. Though it’s not as if you could get lost finding it, since it is right there,” she dissolves into even more hysterical and crazy laughter than is usual for her and Chapman jumps at the noise. 

“Sorry, sorry!” She apologizes, stifling her laughter and opening the door for him. “Oh! Should I go and grab the stuff- your stuff I mean? The pills and the tea and everything?”

He reaches for her shoulders to stop her from turning to grab his things, and she shudders under his touch. He moves his hands back quickly and coughs. “It’s fine, Antigone. You can keep it. Seeing as you don’t have any medicine yourself.”

“What about your mug?” 

“You can keep that, too. Or, you know…,” he coughs again. “Maybe you could bring it by sometime. And we could get a coffee or something? In my cafe? Together?”

Antigone raises an eyebrow as she eyes him. He seems oddly nervous and specific and awkward, considering he is asking her to return his mug at some point. 

“Yes…? She says, a faint question in her answer. “That is traditionally what a mug is used for.”

“Right…?” He says, a question in his own voice. “So then… I will see you soon?”

“Alright… if you want. I’m fine with that.”

“Right….”

Suddenly, Rudyard appears and shoves Chapman out the door. “Yes, yes. Right, right. Goodbye, now. Please do not ever return. Feel free to walk into the ocean anytime. Good. BYE!” This last accompanied by Rudyard slamming the door in his face.

“NOW,” he whirls on her and points accusingly in her face. “We need to have a talk.”

“I don’t want to have a talk. I want to be alone. I’m going back to bed.”

“You’ve been in bed all day,” Rudyard protests.

But that isn’t true. For at least a small part of the day, she had been on the couch. On the couch with Chapman. On the couch with Chapman with her head in his lap. On the couch with Chapman with her head in his lap and his hands on her. Which sounds a little bit more indecent than it was, but Antigone is alright with that. 

She bursts back into her room and tugs the blanket that sits on the back on her desk chair into her arms. It smells like him now and she sighs in a mixture of pleasure and shame (it’s a specific feeling- one that only bloody Eric Chapman can elicit). She trips over the bag that he had left at the foot of the chair and knocks its contents onto the ground. In it are a couple of other pill bottles, a box of chicken soup, a container of tea, a tissue box and a large black jumper. She snatches it up and inhales deeply again. It is definitely Chapman’s. Bloody Chapman’s bloody jumper… ugh, she hates him. (She already knows she is going to keep it.)

She feels sort of bad about it, but he’d practically given her permission to do so! He likely forgot that he had included his jumper, but well, finders keepers and all that. If he explicitly asks for it back, she will return it… maybe. If you think about it, it’s all his fault anyways. Everything is.

Bloody, bloody Chapman. Antigone cannot help but hope that he  _ will _ walk into the ocean, even as she hopes he’ll take her with him. She sighs, resigning herself to even more pining and fantasizing from afar, with the certainty that bloody Chapman’s bloody jumper will now take up a starring role in said fantasies.

Bloody, BLOODY Eric Chapman!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Antigone, you poor oblivious darling. (In my head, since Antigone reads a lot of trashy romance, she is definitely picturing a passionate and dramatic speech when she thinks about getting asked out. It doesn't occur to her that it might come as a stilted and awkward request for coffee... even though, that is how the real world works 80% of the time.) Also, Rudyard was again largely unnecessary, but my God, do I ever love writing him. 
> 
> Next chapter: Eric is sick and Antigone nurses him; we also get a little bit more insight into his PoV. I make no promises for when this chapter will be released- just that it will be. Thanks as always for reading and commenting 😊😊😊


	2. For Richer, For Poorer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Think chapter 1... but flip it lol. Also, the cheese in this one is off the charts lmao.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who it is! It's me, showing up months late to the party with Starbucks and a hopefully adequate offering to make up for it. I'm so sorry for how late this is, guys! I was so slammed with schoolwork this last semester and then, while i was trying to work on this over the Christmas holidays, I was working nearly every day and I still didn't have a lot of time to get this done. (I've also been trying desperately to read just one book before the next sem starts. Is this what growing up is? It fucking sucks.) I make no promises for the last part- it'll be very fluffy and ridiculous and I hope to get it to you all soon. But like I said- no promises. Thanks so much for those of you that are still reading and engaged with this story and fandom and I hope you enjoy the new installment of my self indulgent sick fic.

Eric had decided to climb Mount Aconcagua largely on a whim. Despite his previous mountaineering experience, the locals had sought to impress on him the difficulty of the ascent and the significance of its height- the highest mountain in the Southern and Western Hemispheres- and it had felt like a challenge from the universe itself. Besides, he couldn’t help thinking that the elevated height, the whistling wind, and the mind-numbing cold might  _ finally  _ stop the merry-go-round of his thoughts, the memories that kept him running, the faces and voices and moments from a long time ago…

And then, of course, he had fallen into a crevasse halfway up the mountain and there had been nothing and nobody to distract his mind from the dark thoughts and mocking memories so it hadn’t ended up mattering much anyways.

He dreams occasionally of the time he’d spent pinned against the mountain, his arm that was crushed against the ice and rock both an agonizing pain and a miraculous boon, since it was this alone that held up his weight and kept him from plummeting to his death. It was a shock to him to find that he did not, in fact, want to die after all and that, for all his posturing and pretense, he had so much more that he wanted to do with life than he had realized. 

He’d been a little amused at the irony of that- that it was only as he looked death in the face once more that he could acknowledge how unprepared he was for its embrace. Then the cold had set in.

It is the cold he dreams of the most. He wakes up, teeth chattering and body rattling, his arms wrapped tightly around his body to ward off the phantom chill of his nightmares. It was a bone-deep cold, a cold that seemed to permeate every part of him, rendering his generously donated parka useless. He’d been shivering so violently by the time that Marshall had happened along to rescue him that he had genuinely been worried the shaking alone would rattle his arm free and leave him free-falling. Or break it, which would, depending on where the break was, either achieve the same result or leave him in even more pain than he was already. 

This had been a vague thought, hardly formed in his mind, since he had been so lethargic by that point. He had already been tired when he began the climb- unable to catch more than a few consecutive hours of sleep those days- but he had been utterly and thoroughly exhausted by the time Marshall saw him. He could barely think or attempt to free himself, Marshall had said he had to call out a few times before he had answered, and it took him a few tries to get hold of the rope Marshall had thrown down. 

Even once he had clambered out of the crevasse, it had taken longer than it should have to get him to the hospital around the corner. His every step had felt heavy and awkward and he’d found it difficult to walk in a straight line; so shallow were his breaths, so deep was his exhaustion, so all-encompassing was the cold. 

When he first muddles his way out of the depths of slumber that morning, he thinks for just a moment that he is back on that dreaded mountain again. He is shivering intensely and, despite having just woken up, he is so tired that standing up feels impossible. He reaches down for the blankets that must have slid off him during the night, only to realize (with frankly ridiculous speed) that he was already covered by them. Despite this, he continues to shake and, summoning a far too large amount of strength to lift his hand to his face, he can feel the cold sweat that dots it. 

“Damn!” he groans aloud at the unavoidable truth: Eric Chapman, the indefatigable, has fallen sick. 

He gives himself exactly three minutes to wallow- for wallow he always does when he is unwell. He has made a habit out of always moving, always smiling, always  _ doing.  _ And sickness is the mortal enemy of movement, smiles, and action. He  _ hates  _ being sick because it forces a halt to his status quo, a status quo that has come to be expected from him from the dear Piffling citizens. (Although, in the depths of his self pity and annoyance, he hates each and everyone of them furiously right now for their unappreciated, unrestricted movement.)

Then- three minutes up- he drags himself up bodily, dresses in the most presentable suit he can find, styles his hair in the careful effortless look he always attempts to maintain, and flashes his most brilliant grin at himself in the mirror in preparation for the pending interview with his customers- all the while fighting the pounding headache, wracking chills and thick fog of his diseased body and mind. Sometimes the pretence of his life is utterly exhausting.

He stops at the top of the stairs, taking a moment to summon every inch of the ever-cheerful Eric Chapman persona he has painstakingly curated. Then, he bounds down to the front door, noting in passing that it is in fact half-past his usual opening hour. His grin is already in place when he opens the door to address the gathered, curious crowd of citizens.

“Good morning, all! My sincere apologies for the wait,” he pauses and takes a deep breath, sheer determination alone keeping him upright. In the resulting silence, various voices break forth from the muffled din of whispers and commentary.

“It’s likely worth the wait though, isn’t it, ol’ chap?”

“Oh yes! What new thing do you have in store for us today?”

“It can only be a glorious surprise, with how long we’ve waited.”

“Not all surprises  _ are  _ glorious. Sometimes… sometimes,” here the voice broke into sobs and Eric mused that Tanya really needed to go to a real therapist.

“Oh, there, there love. It’ll… it’ll be alright!” Bill joined her quiet sobs as always.

“Yes. There is certainly something of a… notable nature going on here. Suspicious, one could say.”

“Yoo hoo! Chappers! I was thinking we could go for a picnic today!”

“Ughhhh! Gag me.”

“Georgie! Pay attention! You are supposed to be doing reconnaissance!”

“But what about my Gregory’s funeral? I thought we were going over the plans for it today. You did say that I could tell you some more about ‘im. A lovely cat ‘e was- always honest and morally upright. Which is more than most cats can say. I remember one time-”

“We can do it! We’ll do it for half the price and half the required story listening.”

“You? But who are you?”

“I’m Rudyard. Rudyard Funn. Of Funn funerals. We do funerals. We get the body in the coffin in the ground on time!” 

“Well, I should ‘ope so! That’s the bare minimum of being a funeral director.”

“Excuse me! Don’t you tell me what the bare minimum of my job is! I  _ know  _ what the bare minimum of my job is: I do it every day!”

“Sir-”

“Not now, Georgie!”

“But I don’t think you meant to say-”

“I  _ meant  _ to say: not now, Georgie!”

For one mad moment, in the face of all of this, Eric considers screaming. He considers berating each and every person on his doorstep. He considers telling them all to shut up (and a couple of them to go to hell). But the moment passes, sanity is restored and he takes in a deep, cleansing breath and smiles wider before raising his voice just enough to be heard.

“I’m afraid there is no special surprise and, in fact, Chapman’s will be closed for the remainder of today. I’m sorry to disappoint any of you,” (and he really is, the resulting groan feels personal and for another mad moment, he thinks he might sit down on the front steps of his own business and just start wailing like a child), “but it cannot be avoided. Vivienne, I’m afraid I will have to decline your invitation but I look forward to going with you another day. Mrs. Marchbank, I am sorry, but I will have to postpone the plans for dear Gregory’s funeral. You are, of course, more than welcome to book with Funn Funerals instead. They… exist.”

“What a cracking compliment,” Georgie mutters as Vivienne flounces off in a huff.

“To be fair, we  _ do  _ exist. But unfortunately,” Rudyard raises his voice, “we do not take pity recommendations from  _ you _ , CHAPMAN!”

This time, Eric considers punching Rudyard. Not enough to damage anything important, but just enough to see him stumble back a pace or two.

Instead, he widens his grin even more. (He might look a little grotesque by this point.) “Well, fair enough, Rudyard-”

“Is it?”

“Not  _ now _ , Georgie!”

“How’s this?” Eric continues. “I will call on you tomorrow morning, Mrs. Marchbank and we can figure it out then. Does that work for you?”

“Well… I s’pose…”

“Marvellous! Right,” he claps his hands together loudly to recall the attention of the slowly dissipating crowd. “I promise a return to the usual course of events tomorrow and look forward to seeing you all then. Enjoy yourselves!”

He turns to enter his blessedly cool, silent, dark home but is stopped by Rudyard’s raised voice. “Now look here!”

Eric turns slowly to face Rudyard’s glowering form. Georgie, he notes, is nowhere to be seen. 

“Yes, Rudyard?” he says, something in his voice that those who knew him “a long time ago…” would recognize as dangerous.

Rudyard sputters incoherently for a moment, but manages to rally himself enough to say. “You just STOLE that client from me! She was going to get us to bury her stupid cat, Geronimo, but you swanned over with your sneaky ways and  _ stole  _ it!”

This time, Eric does do what he fantasizes: he turns away from Rudyard and swiftly walks back into his home without another word.

In the stillness of his deserted foyer, he sinks against the door and groans aloud. Everything hurts and, despite how hard he had worked to the contrary, he had  _ still  _ lost his cool. Damn those Funns!

“Damn them,” he mutters under his breath. 

It feels good to do this. It feels liberating and cathartic- especially here, in the foyer of his home, where he greets each client with an unflagging smile and an all too often false cheer every day. But today… today he can be himself freely and there is nobody to judge. So he says it again- even louder this time. 

“Damn them! Damn those pesky, exhausting, confusing Funns! DAMN THEM!”

In the glorious silence which follows, as the echoes die off and the shadows deepen, a voice suddenly pierces the darkness beside him.

“Hello.”

“Ahh!” Eric jumps a foot in the air and marvels at Antigone’s uncanny ability to catch even him off guard. 

“Sorry! Sorry!” She rushes to apologize, wringing her hands.

“No, no. It’s alright. You just… startled me.”

“It’s because I was in the shadows.”

“Yes… I daresay it was.”

“I like the shadows.”

“Yes, I know.”

“They’re safe.”

He hums awkwardly.

“And familiar.”

He coughs this time.

“And comforting, like a warm embrace from-”

“Antigone?” He cuts her off. “Is there a reason you’re here or do you need something or…?” 

“Oh!” She startles out of her musings on shadows. “Yes.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out with a jumble of words, so rushed and close together that it takes him a moment to parse meaning out of them.

“I have come to take care of you!”

Once he has ascertained her meaning, he asks her, “Why?”

“Why?” She spits in apparent annoyance. “What do you mean, why? Because you took care of me, of course! And now you are sick because of me so… I must return the favour. Believe me, I don’t want to be here either, but these are the rules of social conduct and we must both grin and bear it.”

So saying, she marches off into the interior of his home. “Are you coming, then?”

Eric is… torn. Things between him and Antigone have shifted somehow. Or maybe they haven’t. Maybe it’s just him. He can’t look at her in the same way anymore. He’d asked her for coffee and she hadn’t come. Did that mean she didn’t want to? Not necessarily. She was a Funn. She might have misunderstood him or been too scared or talked herself out of it. The important thing here is  _ his _ reaction. Because  _ he  _ had been… relieved. 

And what did he do with that?

“Chapman?” Antigone has managed to sneak back and is beside his elbow once more.

“Fu-!” He swallows the rest of the swear down and wonders whether he would even be able to evict her from his house now that she was in it. 

“Sorry!” Her apology seems less sincere this time given she follows it with: “If you would have just followed me, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

This time, she places her palm squarely between his shoulder blades and shoves him forward, removing her hand from his person immediately after. He gives in. It would be more work at this point to get her to leave than it is to just play along. Maybe he can pretend to be asleep in the hopes she will leave. 

Thinking about his own pretence of sleep reminds him of the discussion he’d had with her on the same subject. He thinks about that sometimes. He thinks about it far too often, in fact.

That’s the main problem. His brain doesn’t seem to be made up on the subject. He was relieved when she didn’t come, was relieved by the return to life as usual on Piffling. After all, what would people say? It’s not as if he could just… what?  _ Date?  _ Antigone Funn and expect there to be no social repercussions. Everything he’d done since he moved here was in an effort to blend into the social fabric of the village, not rend it in two. Besides, the  _ fight  _ he would have with Vivienne on the subject would be cataclysmic.

So that should have been that, right? Back to normal and maybe in a month or two, he could even chuckle over the day he'd briefly lost his mind and considered going on a date with the competition. That should have been the end of it. 

But it wasn’t.

Instead, he’d started  _ thinking  _ about her at the most inopportune of moments. Like, one day he’d just been out on a stroll through the village when suddenly he’d thought how much more enjoyable it would be if Antigone was beside him, providing droll commentary on the bizarre behaviour of the people they passed. And then, another day, he’d been purchasing flowers for a funeral when he’d suddenly had the utterly mad idea to buy the wilting one that Petunia was trying to hide at the back of the table and give it to her. He’d even asked for it before his good sense caught up to the look of confusion on Petunia’s face and he’d laughed it off. Later that same week, he’d been sneaking a piece of the Memento Moris before bed when he had the even crazier idea that he’d love to be feeding Antigone a piece of it right then.

And he  _ dreamed  _ about her. He would wake up from fuzzy, warm, intangible dreams unable to remember anything other than that she had been there. Or he would wake up grasping for the cold blankets beside him, because she had felt so  _ real  _ in the dream that he’d genuinely thought for a moment that he could take her in his arms. Even worse, sometimes he would wake up needy and embarrassingly hard- like he was sixteen all over again- as his subconscious concocted all the various ways she could, in fact, manage to “get him off.”

Worst of all, he kept picturing her when he was out with Vivienne. She would make a comment and he wondered if she’d always been as uninteresting as she now seemed and what Antigone might say instead. Her laugh grated on him with its insincerity, her compliments felt undeserved, her praise felt gratuitous and he missed the sharp, honest, interesting things Antigone could always be counted on to say. When he tried to kiss her to silence his inner critical commentary, Antigone’s face had flashed before his eyes: the way she had looked with her head pillowed on his lap that day, soft, unguarded, vulnerable- suddenly and surprisingly breathtaking. He’d jerked away from Vivienne in shock and had made an excuse to leave. Since then, he’d been avoiding her. Everything felt tainted between them now. In fact, that was likely why she’d planned the picnic: a last-ditch effort to fix things. Now that he’d rejected her request for like the fifth time in a week, she would likely break up with him.

The sheer relief he feels at the thought outrages him. He’s relieved that nothing came of his attempt to ask Antigone out but he can’t stop thinking about her, and now he is relieved at the thought of losing Vivienne too?! Well, what the hell is the problem then?? Maybe it’s him. Maybe he just  _ thinks  _ he wants companionship but at his core, he truly wants to be alone. 

In the course of this frustrating, circular thought process, he’s apparently climbed the stairs, entered his room and is tucked back in his bed. Antigone reappears out of seemingly nowhere, clutching in white knuckled hands both the pills and mug that he himself had left at her place a few weeks ago. The mug has been filled with water and she thrusts it at him, before tipping out two pills onto the shaking palm of her hand. She raises her eyebrows at him until he hesitantly holds out a hand. She drops the pills onto his palm, from such a height that he barely catches them and it occurs to him that she seems to be afraid of him or at least, afraid to touch him.

That was an interpretation that had not occurred to him. Perhaps she regretted their day together. This doesn’t sit well with him for a reason he can’t quite pinpoint. Honestly, it shouldn’t really surprise him that she is managing to confuse and disorient him in this as in everything else.

Still, he doesn’t like it and he thinks that’s why he says what he does next. Or maybe he’s already too drugged up to think clearly. Or maybe he’s just a dumbass.

Either way, he catches her hand in his, tugs her forward to lie beside him, and murmurs, “Stay here?”

She snatches it away from him and practically flings herself to the other side of the room in her haste to get away. She stands at the far wall, panting a little, cradling her hand as if he had broken it, and staring at him in bewilderment and betrayal and longing and fear.

He watches her for a moment through hazy eyes. Now that he is back in his warm bed with the one person he has never felt the need for pretence with, pills in his system and his sickness back at the forefront, he is fading fast and his eyelids feel too heavy to open entirely.

Still, he doesn’t want to hurt her. He may not know what he wants with her but he knows that he doesn’t ever want to hurt her. So he opens his mouth to take it back when suddenly and ferociously, she snaps, “I will!”

She says it like it is a challenge, like she is expecting him to disagree with her, like she wants him to. He doesn’t. He’s not sure if he would have had he been in a coherent frame of mind, but it doesn’t matter much given that at this point, he is barely even awake anymore.

It still takes her a couple more minutes to cross the room and carefully settle down beside him, at which point he is practically dead to the world. His last memory is turning towards her and burying his nose in her soft hair. She smells like clementines and safety, and it makes him smile.

He is awoken from a deep sleep by the tickle of something against his nose. He cracks his eyes open just enough to see the curtain of Antigone’s hair resting in his face. She appears to be wrestling with something and it takes him a moment to realize that she is trying to pry his arm from around her body where it has apparently decided to take up residence. He has a vague feeling that he should probably move it for her, but every part of him rebels against the very thought. Instead, he tightens his arm around her and tugs her even closer, burying his nose even further in her hair and slotting a leg half in between hers in the process.

At this, she fairly yelps and, with an apparent new burst of strength, rips his arm from her body and flings herself out of the bed. He opens an eye lazily to watch her stand up and collect herself. She smoothes her hair ad nauseum and opens her mouth to speak several times before managing a hushed, “Chapman?”

“Mmm?” He mumbles, letting his eye fall shut again and wishing she would come run her fingers through his hair. 

“I’m going to make some tea and soup, if you want some?” Her voice is husky in that way that signals she just woke up and it is unbelievably sexy.

This sudden, unexpected thought propels him into consciousness more quickly and effectively than possibly anything else in the world. 

He opens his eyes and props himself up on his elbows, physically shaking his head as if that might dispel the bizarre nonsense his brain has been churning out. He clears his throat and pastes on a patented Chapman grin. “That sounds wonderful, actually. Do you know where to find some?”

She blushes a little and he determinedly does  _ not  _ think of how far the blush extends. “Well, I just brought over your supplies from last time with me, so I was just gonna make that. I  _ do  _ know how to make soup and tea.”

Eric doubts this actually, but he doesn’t want to face her wrath in voicing this. Besides, he needs a moment away from her to parse through the multitude of feelings that are swirling around his mind and heart right now.

So he grins at her and waves her onward, before collapsing back into the bed as if he intends to go back to sleep. Only once he can hear her downstairs in his personal kitchen does he sit back up and attempt to sort through the tangled mess inside of him.

How does he truly feel for Antigone? 

First of all, he needs to take into account both his relief at her rejection of his offer to get coffee together and the way his mind seemed to be fixated on her. Add to that his actions and feelings today and you get… what? 

He certainly seems to desire her physically. In an obviously sexual way but also seemingly in a simpler, deeper, more intimate way? He feels safe with her, he feels warm and content and like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally found a place to stay. The thought makes something inside of him ache. He didn’t realize how tired he was, how utterly exhausted his soul was, until the opportunity to rest presented itself. It’s as if the confusion and lethargy and icy cold of that mountain has followed him everywhere he’s been and somehow, for some reason, Antigone made him feel like he could finally rest and heal and find peace.

But that was the problem. Why? Why was he feeling this way? Why Antigone? Why now? 

Is it just plain loneliness? He cannot deny that he has been lonely. Every smile and laugh and suggestion and lighthearted jest and “enjoy yourselves!” feels just a little too insincere, just a little too ill-fitting- like a shirt that’s too tight across the shoulders. He can move in it, but he’s not comfortable and he spends an absurd amount of time overanalyzing everything he does and worrying that one wrong move may ruin the shirt permanently. 

It’s not as if he really has friends on the island either. At least, not really. He knows that Desmond apparently considers him enough of a friend to be his best man and can name a half dozen people off the top of his head who would call him their friend, but he doesn’t agree. A friend is someone who knows you, who you know, who you can be honest with, who you can be fully yourself with, who encourages  _ and  _ challenges you, praises  _ and  _ berates you. Nobody on this island knows him like that… and worse, he doesn’t know any of them like that either. 

By this definition, yes, the Funns are the closest things he has to friends (good  _ God _ ) so it sort of fits that he would develop feelings for Antigone. But it’s not as if he feels this way about Rudyard- or even Georgie anymore. (In fact, he is rather convinced that Georgie has some sort of secret thing going on with the radio lady, Jennifer somebody, but when he asked her, she had simply looked at him cooly and told him that if he ever interfered in her personal life, she would sneak into his house at night and shave him bald. So that was the end of that.) 

As well, it’s not as if the loneliness is a new life companion. He has been lonely for longer than he can even remember.  _ And  _ he has Vivienne! Who was… an adequate fulfiller of this requirement. So it can’t be loneliness, or at the very least, his loneliness is no more a factor than usual. So what had inspired this new development in his perceptions of Antigone?

He supposed it might just be for convenience’s sake. Sure, he had Vivienne, but Vivienne was… a lot. And that was on a good day. Antigone was right across the square and they worked in similar professions so she likely wouldn’t have any of Vivienne’s ongoing complaints (“Chappers! You  _ must  _ remember to shower before you come see me. It feels as if a corpse is holding me.” “Can’t you just blow off work for a couple days? What’s the worst thing that would happen to the body- it’s not as if it could die again.” “ _ Must  _ you talk about such grisly things while I am trying to eat?” “You look as if you just came from a funeral and it’s giving me the creeps! Please  _ do  _ remember to change before you come to our little outings.”) 

Besides, Antigone has already managed to see him in a variety of intense situations. She is acquainted with both his fears and his less admirable qualities and doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with them. Perhaps it is just that it is so easy to be himself around her and that a relationship with her would require very little from him.

But that is simply not true, either! In theory it is true: they know each other well, have similar interests, live near one another etc. but she is also Antigone Funn and any expression of a relationship he pursues with her is bound to be fraught with difficulty- nothing easy or simple about it.

This is not a deterrent to him, though. Such things have never been. He likes a challenge. (Of course, if he just wanted a challenge, there are a multitude of things from his past he could face up to or he could continue to woo Georgie.) So it can’t be for either the sake of convenience or for the sake of a challenge.

What then? What else is there? 

It might just be a response to her own seeming adoration that she had unintentionally revealed that day at her house. She seems to care for him- dreams of him exclusively, shudders at his touch, thinks about him in a less than decent fashion. I mean, at the very least, she is attracted to him. He does think it is more than that, though. If he is honest with himself, he has suspected it for a while. Honestly, he has known it all along, but had not been willing to face it until that day. And now… now he can barely think of anything else.

He knows this is not a satisfactory explanation, either. Many women (and men) on this island seem to be attracted to him… and he doesn’t picture them as he travels about the village or dream about them every night or want so very badly to be allowed to learn the subtleties of their facial grimaces and groans. 

It might be all of these reasons together?

But this does not suit either he knows. He knows what the real answer is. He has known all along, but is only able to admit it now that all the other theories have been considered and rejected. The fact is- the fact  _ must _ be- that he likes her. For whatever reason/ for the multitudes that he has already considered, he likes Antigone Funn. He wants to date her, he wants to hold her and kiss her and laugh with her and debate with her and learn all the mesmerizing intricacies of her personality. He  _ wants  _ her in a way he has not wanted someone… for a very long time….

It should be more frightening than it is. It should not be as heady and as intoxicating a feeling as it is. He’ll need to remember to tread carefully. The social repercussions of this  _ will  _ be significant- it is Antigone, after all. He also doesn’t want to startle her or embarass her or hurt her. He should think about this more and plan his next moves with precision and care.

Even as he is thinking this though, he is clambering out of his bed to go find her….

… and being suddenly and forcefully reminded that he is still quite sick as his body stumbles, an ache explodes in his head and another shiver wracks through him. He sits back down heavily, just as Antigone swoops in like a thundercloud. She glowers at his seated form for a solid minute, while he squirms and blushes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she finally says sharply.

“I was looking for you,” he responds promptly, smiling hopefully at her.

She continues to glower at him, but she also thrusts forward the bowl of soup she had brought, so he considers this a win. 

He takes a careful spoonful of the broth, considering the delightful enigma that is Antigone Funn from under his eyelashes. He nearly chokes on the soup for he was right to doubt her. It is not good- not at all. Nevertheless, he finishes his bowl bravely and washes it down with the tepid tea she had also brought him.

The soup- as awful as it was- does wonders for his head and his chills and he finally realizes what should have been evident to him all along. 

“You were sick weeks ago, Antigone. It is highly unlikely that my current cold is a result of my decision to take care of you.”

She busies herself with his bowl that she is refilling and does not meet his eyes as she murmurs, “I suspected that.”

She hands the bowl to him and meets his eyes defiantly. “I wanted to come!”

So saying, her burst of courage seems to die away and she fairly whispers the next words, eyes glued to her shoes. “I wanted to return the favour. I wanted to take care of you.”

He considers her for another second and gathers his own courage and recklessness. “Antigone?”

She does not look up but she doesn’t leave either, and he chalks that up as another win.

“After I recover, I would very much like to take you on a date. Is that something you would be amenable to?”

Her head snaps up so fast it is nearly comical. “ _ What?? _ ”

He has fully found his courage now, though. He meets her gaze cooly and calmly says, “You heard and understood me perfectly.”

“Well,  _ why  _ then?” she retorts.

“Because I would like to take you on a date.” There will be time later for longer explanations. For now, he simply has to get her to agree. They can move forward from there.

She doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then suddenly, she straightens her shoulders, takes a deep breath, picks up the soup pot… and walks straight back out of his room.

He sits on the edge of his bed, as befuddled as he always is when he speaks to this woman, and listens to her putter around in the kitchen, presumably rinsing out the soup pot and looking for ways to avoid his question.

Even as he thinks it, she fiercely marches back into his room and spits out, “I’m not going to behave any differently than I do now just because we are on a date!”

“I would expect no otherwise,” he responds after a second.

“I’ve never been on a real date before!”

“That is alright. I’m sure we can figure it out together.”

“I won’t be anything like Lady Templar!”

“Fair enough. I won’t either, so we should be safe on that account.” (That reminds him: he’ll need to confirm the end of his relationship with Vivienne and by God, will that ever be a hellish experience.)

“It’s going to be difficult,” she warns, less angrily this time.

“I’ve always appreciated a little difficulty in life. What would be the point otherwise?”

She rolls her eyes, but he can tell he is winning her over nonetheless.

She voices a final protest. “Rudyard won’t like it.”

“Isn’t that a reason  _ to  _ do this, rather than a reason to not?”

She gives a harsh bark of laughter in response to that and rolls her eyes again. It is a distinctly fond eye roll however and he takes his life in his hands, reaches out his hand to hers and tangles their fingers together.

“Is that a yes, then?”

She lets him hold her hand for a moment and then yanks it back. She reaches over him to pick up his unfinished second bowl of soup and fixes him with an unimpressed look. “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

Before she leaves again, she pauses in the doorway and adds without turning around. “I’d be more likely to if you finished your tea and got some more rest.”

It should scare him more how quickly he downs the tea and lays back down in his bed. It doesn’t, though. As she clatters away downstairs and he drifts to sleep, with the faintest impression of her scent from the pillow beside him placing a dopey smile on his face, he just feels happy. He feels happy and expectant and warm- like something long frozen solid is  _ finally  _ beginning to thaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggle SOOOOO much to write Chapman! The mysterious ambiguity of his past drives me crazy! I try to just insinuate things and dance around it as the show does, but it's still very frustrating for me. Fair warning: when season 4 finally comes out, if it disproves any of this, I'm honestly gonna lowkey rewrite the chapter. Lol. This is just who i am as a writer and person- I know it's weird but there you go.
> 
> Also, I feel like i was kinda mean to Vivienne in this chapter, but I didn't mean to be. I hope it didn't come across like that. 
> 
> I hope you are all staying safe and healthy and whole in this holiday season and enjoying yourselves as much as you are able! 😊😊 Pour one out for ya girl if you get a minute- school starts in a week and she has not even begun to recover from last semester 😂😂😭


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